Page 8 of Portrait of A Lost Artist

NATHAN

“I always knew I’d be the second best at best. I always knew he left a big gaping hole in your chest. I always knew about the clothes of his that you kept. I always knew it’d be the two of you in the end.” - The Other POV by Khloe Rose.

I F SIMON SAW WHERE I LIVED, HE’D HAVE A STROKE.

I quite like it, if I’m being honest. It’s just... different.

The cramped house that ceased my hunt for a home in Havana at the fair price of fifty bucks monthly belonged to none other than Benicio Gutierrez.

Upon living here for an entire week, he has caught me up on the rumors about him that go around town.

He lives in a small home, surrounded by eccentricities and collectives.

Benicio collects dead flowers, marking them and hanging them on his walls.

Lush plants are thoughtfully scattered throughout the space, creating a vibrant atmosphere in this charming home.

With two cozy bedrooms, a well-appointed bathroom, and a kitchen featuring beautifully polished wooden surfaces, it exudes warmth.

He likes for his surroundings to feel full; some call it obsessive, but I understand Benicio.

He studied English when he was in middle school, saying how the studying system was way better at this time—he’s in his sixties, nearing his seventies—and complaining about the government like it is his job.

Though, he’s just another retired teacher that people judge.

They say he has gone mad; he told me through our morning talks in between sips of coffee before I went to work, that he collects to fill a deep void in his brain.

Though, no one dared know that Benicio just was going through grief and heartbreak.

Not that anyone knows, or some could whisper about it, but they don’t openly talk about the subject.

As I’ve learned, the idea is still being welcomed and accepted in this Latin society.

He shared a heartfelt memory of a time when he was deeply in love with another man.

They were husbands, living together as devoted teachers at the same school.

Their bond was woven through shared experiences in the classroom and quiet moments at home, filled with laughter and understanding.

He died a few months back from lung cancer—a smoker, quite like me, so Benicio stopped me from ever doing it around the house—and that’s when he started renting the room.

Extremely cheap, but I make it up with talk and filling up his house with more of those collectibles he likes.

He’s framing a weird Diphylleia Grayi that I asked to be bought by Renna so I could give it to him as a present.

Benicio is a tall man, hunching on his small wooden chairs—a habit he inherited from his time with his husband, who was much shorter—, with a bald head and rounded glasses, wrinkled to the core.

He speaks with a gentleness and patience that I wish I had when I was younger, instead of Simon’s booming voice asking me to be more.

“I don’t get why you’re so set on learning Spanish.” Benicio points out, for that’s what I’ve asked him in this uneventful morning. We’re having coffee and dulce de leche-covered bread, silently waiting for the sun to be at its peak before I have to return to my dishwasher job for the morning.

“I came to Havana, and I can't keep making signs or using Google Translate to communicate with everyone.” I say, though Benicio spares me a look, inspecting me with intent before sighing.

“That’s good. Learning is always a good thing.

I have a few books from when I was a teacher myself, but I feel you’re hiding something from me.

” He eyes me up and down, maybe because I am much different from how I was when I entered this house.

I’ve let my beard grow a bit, not too much, for I like it trimmed, but a change wouldn’t do me wrong.

“But let me tell you...Cuban women are far more complicated than what you’re used to. ”

“What makes you think it’s because of a woman?” I lean back on the chair, balancing it with my feet for it to go back and forth. Though, I can’t help the little grin that forms on the corner of my mouth.

“Oh lord, Nathan...” He repeats my name a few times before joining in on my laughter. “Don’t tell me it’s love you’re thinking about—”

I shake my head relentlessly. Interest is more of what I would call it.

The woman that I saw at the restaurant was gorgeous, I won’t lie about that.

The eccentric curve of her hips, the handles and weight that make her look matured, an elongated face and plump lips that beg to be bitten.

I won’t get in trouble with the daughter of my boss, but if the moment came about to forget about life for a bit and just..

.let some steam off, I would be delighted to be part of it.

Not that it would ever happen, considering that the moment she saw that man outside, she came back crying and didn’t dare get out of that bathroom.

Heartbreak becomes an unbearable feeling once it happens, and while I’ve never gone through it for something related to romance, I can understand that it broke her. Badly.

A woman in love with another man is not someone I should want to get to know, but the best thing that could happen is that we become friends. And I can keep it in my pants, I’m sure about that.

“She’s just hot. I’d like to be her friend.”

“Nathan—”

“What?” I prod. The repetition of his threats makes me laugh.

“That’s the most hetero thing you can say.” He complies, finishing up his job before sniffling loudly. One for allergies; he is, after all. “Tell me who this lady that you want to talk to so badly is.”

“You’ll judge me if I do.” I tell him, though I learn forward to interlock my hands together, only to see Benicio shake his head.

“I’m not one to judge, you know this.” It’s different to meet someone like this.

I’ve been in the most beautiful of places, accompanied by people of my society that others would beg to be around, but I’ve never felt more at ease than in this small house, smelling of gardenias and freshly brewed coffee.

“You know my boss, right? I mean, you’re one of her clients; of course you know her.

” I met Benicio at my job interview, when he helped me communicate with Esperanza and her husband, Pedro, owners of Aseré.

“I didn’t know she had two children. Sure, I saw the pictures, but I didn’t pay attention to them.

Her daughter? She’s the one I’m talking about. ”

Benicio purses his lips, not in distaste, but I can’t quite pinpoint the feeling, either.

“Veronica Del Real.” He says, and the name engraves in my brain rather quickly.

It fits her. “Oh, you don’t stand a chance.

That girl has been in love with one of the Pacheco brothers since forever. I’m surprised they’re not married yet.”

It’s easy to imagine, then, that the exact man that has her choking on her tears is also the man that she’s in love with.

I wonder, sometimes, why we choose to suffer.

Is it tempting to fail just because of the growth that comes after?

Why is it that the heart only calls out for those who are not correct for it?

“I’m not saying I stand a chance, or that I only want to learn Spanish because of her.

It’s just an incentive, not the main reason I do it.

” Though it wouldn’t be bad to hear her voice.

Or say more than the three words I learned on my trips to Madrid or Buenos Aires.

“I just want a friend, alright? She seems like she’d be a good friend. ”

“Alright, friendly boy, we’re starting classes tomorrow. I just hope you’re ready, because I’m grading you and all.”

I salute him as I stand up, knowing that it’s my cue to leave when my phone rings with its alarm.

Riding around on a bicycle in the life-breather that is Cuba is not as easy as one would think, much less when I’m trying to impress my boss with something other than my dishwashing skills.

They are horrid, so I can, at least, say that I’m responsible.

When I grab my phone, however, I realize I have a notification.

I’ve silenced all my social media, but I keep a few notifications on.

To see Jun and his daughter on her birthday, for example, so I can comment on the post and congratulate little Chaeyoung for turning six.

Or Renna and her sarcastic comments on Twitter, that make me laugh when I can’t sleep at night.

However, I had forgotten that Simon had me keeping Jane Rae’s notifications on, and that means that her Instagram post reaches me.

A picture of Jane Rae and I appear on the screen.

She has tagged me, speaking of the memory as if it had happened just yesterday.

My head is tilted back, the smooth tequila bottle angled just right to pour its golden nectar into my waiting mouth, a playful grin spreading across my face.

Beside me, Jane takes a swig straight from another glistening bottle, her arm casually draped around my shoulder, exuding a sultry confidence as she smolders at the camera.

I don’t remember that night, but my mouth waters at the idea of a drink.

To ease up a little, make nights easier to go through. ..

The caption chills me away from the idea.

Cheers to us, babe! My partner in crime, my everything, my muse. Happy one-year anniversary to the man of my dreams.

None of that is real. Not the companionship, the people commenting, the moment itself.

She always brings her cameras around, capturing the best moment and then fleeing away from the scene.

We’re not together and there it is; I continue to be just another addition to a contract.

An addict that people love to look at just to cheer or tear into shambles.